A/N: Italicized words in quotations are being spoken in French, regular words in quotations are being spoken in Spanish. I'm warning you now: This is sad. If you don't want to possibly cry, then don't read this. Thank you, Kaylee, for being my constant France inspiration.

...

Francis sat in his cell in the Bastille, listening to the angry shouts of the people outside. The people of France, HIS people, were angry with the people who had more than them. So angry, in fact, that they were beheading everyone that even appeared wealthy. But surely his people would see that there was no need to go this far! Their point had already been made with the beheading of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, there was no need to take it any farther. And yet the Bastille still echoed with the frantic cries of the nobility. Maybe, just maybe, another nation would send help. He pondered his fate day after day, watching the one indicator of time he had: a small sliver of light through his cell window. One by one, the cries in the Bastille were decreasing as the days went by.

Then one day, his cell was opened. Standing there were two men with guns, aimed at him. "Get up!" They shouted. Francis stood up, his face paling. He could hear very well what was being shouted outside.

"LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION!"

"DEATH TO THE PARASITE!"

Francis looked at the rifles in fear, knowing what was about to happen. No one had ever succeeded in killing him, but he had never been guillotined before. Would this be the end of him? He didn't have very long to think about it. He was roughly grabbed by the men, his arms bound tightly behind his back.

"What are you doing?! I have done nothing wrong!" Francis shouted in fear. He began to struggle, trying to keep from being dragged outside by these men. It was to no avail, however, as he was promptly grabbed by the hair and dragged out of his cell. He heard the shouts getting closer and closer, and he suddenly knew there was no escape from this, his fate. He was led out the door and into the crowd, the sudden exposure to sunlight blinding him and causing him to squeeze his eyes shut in pain.

"Death to the parasite!"

"You die today, thorn!"

He felt something splatter against his cheek, and before he registered that he was being spat at, someone else spat at his closed eye. They were demeaning him, he realized. Lowering him to nothing more than an animal, ready for the slaughter.

"How does it feel, to be considered less than human?!"

Something hard hit him in the gut, and soon after, another hit his back. They must be throwing rocks at him now.

He was pulled up the steps of the platform, and he started trembling uncontrollably. How could the people he loved so much, be so cruel? He was forced to his knees, his head pushed through the guillotine. He silently prayed, and then suddenly, he wasn't scared any longer. He heard the shouts and jeers of his people, and he opened his eyes one last time, to look out at the people he had tried so hard to take care of.

"I pray to God for your happiness." He murmured, so low that the crowd couldn't hear him.

"KER-SHNK" An excruciating pain blossomed from his neck, then suddenly he lost all feeling of everything, and the world around him went black.

...

Antonio watched with sadness as his friend was scratched, kicked, and spat on. He had wanted to send help to Francis, but his own boss had refused to let him. So he had come alone, just in time to watch his best friend be treated like an animal, and promptly slaughtered like one. He knew there was still something he could do, but he couldn't do it with the crowd around. They jeered, and cheered even louder when something went wrong. The guillotine blade hadn't cut cleanly, and the executioner pushed down hard on the blade until his head rolled into the basket with a thunk. He watched as Francis' murderer held up his head to show the crowd, his normally exquisite golden hair tangled and stained with blood. His hands shook in his coat pockets, and he tried not to cry as he witnessed the head and body of his closest friend thrown off to the side like nothing more than trash. He breathed in and out, trying to keep from losing it. He wasn't fighting any wars right now! There was no need to turn bloodthirsty in a country that was not his own. He stayed there for several minutes, listening to the crowd disperse. What a bunch of bloodthirsty beasts they all were, gathering here so early in the morning just to watch a beheading. He walked over to the pile of the bodies of the slain, that no one wanted to claim. He sighed and lifted Francis' head up gently, staring into the deep blue eyes that stared back lifelessly.

"I'm sorry, my friend." Antonio sighed. "I wanted to come sooner, but I couldn't. But don't worry, I'm here now." He hoisted the Frenchman's body onto his shoulders, and somberly carried it to a nearby cart that was hitched to a horse. Laying the body gently in the back, he covered it and the head with a blanket. "Rest well, Francis. I'll try to fix you as soon as we get home." After securing both the head and the body to make sure that neither would fall out, he climbed into the driver's seat and clicked the horse forward, to begin the long journey back to Spain.

...

Soft music lulled Francis back to consciousness. He awoke suddenly, memories of what had happened flooding his mind. How was he still alive?! His hand flew to his throat, and he was shocked to find stitches there. His head had been sewn back on? By whom? He heard movement next to him, and slowly turned his head to look. A familiar Spaniard was sleeping in a chair next to him, and was clearly uncomfortable, judging by the way he kept shifting about in his sleep.

"ANTONIO! MY GOD, ANTONIO!" Francis cried, happy to see another nation, and a friendly one at that.

The Spaniard's green eyes flew open at the sound of Francis' voice, and he rose quickly from the chair, rushing to the hurt nation's side.

"My God, you are alive." Antonio gently lifted him up and hugged him, speaking in imperfect French.

"Antonio, how? How am I still alive? What happened?" Francis clutched the Spanish nation's shirt tightly in his fists.

"You are still a nation. You still live because France still does, in the heart of your people." Antonio held the trembling blond in his arms gently. He ran his fingers through the hair he had spent an hour cleaning, making sure every trace of grime and blood was washed away.

"My… my people killed me! They spat on me, Antonio. They threw rocks. They treated me as if I was nothing more than trash on the street. How can I call myself the Country of Love, when my people cannot love?" He buried his face into Antonio's chest, sobbing and shaking wildly. The Spaniard clutched him to his chest, whispering words of wisdom, prayers, even lines from poetry into his ear, in both Spanish and French. He knew he couldn't make what had happened any better; that would require time.

However, one thing was certain.

"You cannot go back. Not until the Revolution is over. You will stay here and rest until it is." Antonio whispered into Francis' ear, easing him back into the bed.

The blond nation nodded. "Thank you, my friend." He sighed and laid back into the bed, looking out the window and wondering if he, the country of love, would ever return to his people that seemingly no longer knew how to love.

The End.